Fame achieved after death has often/always been associated with a sort of divine genius. An artist/poet/writer recognised after death is one who was ahead of his/her time, who produced work of extreme and timeless importance, who could only be understood and appreciated by future, more enlightened generations.

But I always felt this a consolation prize. The real prize - that of being recognised and knowing about it - never been awarded. The artist who dies in obscurity - the loser.

I’ve started reading Fowles’ journals - the first volume. And he seems to be of the same opinion.

November 7, 1949 -

Immortality is a convention, a white elephant. A futility. There is no logic in planning for it. No enjoyment, no beauty can come out of it. All life should be designed to be contained within life. Within the closed circle. Outside the theatre, the bouquets won’t be seen. The turnip who gains fame in his life, and lives, has an immense superiority over the poet who becomes famous after his death, and obscurely exists. Immortality is the gravestone of the spirit. What use is the gravestone?